


Our Souls Are the Same

by poetrythroughprose



Series: Wolves and girls [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, It's Canon in the Comics Guys, Past Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Where is Natasha's Backstory, Why Isn't This Canon in the MCU, buckynat - Freeform, winter widow - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-11 07:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4426061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetrythroughprose/pseuds/poetrythroughprose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natalia Alianovna Romanova.1928.</p><p>1928. No, that wasn't right. 1984?</p><p>Her memories blurred. The clothing, the building, the technology – it was the 1990s, wasn't it? It was the blood-red studio, the glass-lined walls, the Cold War chill. Her memories blurred again, then refocused. No, it was the 1940s. It was the cement courtyard, the blast of bullets hitting their targets, the World War II grit. It was a table of dismantled guns, a reel of American film, and a dark-haired man with a metal arm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Natalia

Something came to life that evening, deep down in that underground Hydra lair. It wasn't just Dr. Zola, imprisoned in that mechanized tomb of a computer. No, it was something within Natasha, and it began ticking the moment that robotic voice said that name.

_Natalia Alianovna Romanova.1984._

Something awoke within Natasha, and she couldn't put it back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean to write BuckyNat fanfic, I swear. I shipped them on the downlow because of their backstory in the comics, but then I saw some amazing gifsets on Tumblr, and it just snowballed.
> 
> This fanfic is basically what I wish was MCU canon. Because we need more Black Widow origin stories, not some traumatic flashbacks.


	2. Memories

It began filtering back into Natasha's mind after that. They were only snatches of memory, hazy colors and voices and names that made little sense to her, but they had the ring of truth to them. She remembered a blood-red studio – a dance studio? - and two rows of young, willowy ballerinas. There was a tall, thin, sharp-looking woman with white hair pulled into a tight bun, and though Natasha did not immediately remember who it was, she remembered being afraid of this woman.

“Again!” the woman shouted in Russian, in a cold, steel voice. “Again!”

And the ballerinas spun, and leapt, and danced until their feet bled through the slippers and their bodies were drenched in sweat.

_No, that's not right._

There were two rows of young, blunt-edged fighters standing in a cement courtyard. The girls faced each other, crouched in a ready stance, and began the dance of combat. The tall, thin, sharp-looking woman with the tight bun stood watching them, barking out commands.

“Again! Again!”

The young agents punched, and kicked, and struck at each other over and over again until their bandaged hands bled and their bodies wore a layer of bruises. All that could be heard were muffled thumps, cracks, and the occasional grunt of pain. Whenever a girl fell and did not get up, she was carried away and did not return.


	3. Ghost

It was Dr. Zola uttering her Russian name which began the trickle of old memories; but it was the Winter Soldier who broke the dam. Natasha had spent much of her time in SHIELD keeping her eyes and ears open for any mention or whisper of the elusive Soviet ghost; she had even, after the assassination of the nuclear scientist, tried to track him down. But it was always a dead end, and the ghost remained a ghost.

Until the assassination of Nick Fury.

“ _He's fast...strong. Had a metal arm.”_

“ _Ballistics?”_

“ _Three slugs, no rifling. Completely untraceable.”_

“ _Soviet made?”_

“ _Yeah.”_

Natasha's thrill of trepidation was buried underneath her fear and grief for Nick; finally, here was the evidence that the evasive Winter Soldier was real. Here was the closest lead she ever had, and it came at the cost of Fury's life.


	4. 1928/1984

Steve Rogers was not meant to be a spy, that much was immediately obvious to Natasha when she demanded to know why Fury had last been to Steve's apartment. His almost comic puzzlement, over-emphasized shrug, and darting gaze told her everything she needed to know: Fury had sought Steve before his death to tell – or give – him something.

Then Rogers was unceremoniously summoned back to the Triskelion, and Natasha knew that SHIELD had been compromised. SHIELD did not demand to speak to people unless they were going to be interrogated; SHIELD did not interrogate people unless they were suspected criminals; and a SHIELD that believed Steve Rogers was a criminal, was a SHIELD that had been compromised. No one who was innocent would believe that Steve was anything but what he presented himself.

Fury, then, had been innocent. If he had been complicit in whatever twisted thing that SHIELD had turned into, no one would have waited until his death in order to detain Captain America. And if they were trying to detain Captain America, then they meant to shift the blame onto him and target him in a worldwide manhunt.

* * *

On the run in a stolen SUV, Natasha grilled Steve on what he had seen and heard when he had fought the Winter Soldier – how his opponent had moved, and fought, and shot. After Fury died, he was the only lead she had on finding out who had wanted Fury killed. The Soviet sniper was an assassin, not a strategist. He did the killing, but not the planning. Someone – a person or an organization – was behind this, directing him to his targets. Natasha meant to discover who it was.

And somewhere, in the back of her mind, a voice whispered her name.

_Natalia Alianovna Romanova.1928._

1928\. No, that wasn't right. 1984?

Her memories blurred. The clothing, the building, the technology – it was the 1990s, wasn't it? It was the blood-red studio, the glass-lined walls, the Cold War chill. Her memories blurred again, then refocused. No, it was the 1940s. It was the the cement courtyard, the blast of bullets hitting their targets, the World War II grit. It was a table of dismantled guns, a reel of American film, and a dark-haired man with a metal arm.

 


	5. James

Bucky.

The name felt strange on her lips, foreign and somehow wrong. It wasn't a common nickname, that was for sure, but she felt like there had to be something better.

“Bucky?” she asked. Maybe if she kept Steve talking, she could shake him out of his shock and they could find a way to escape. Maybe if she kept them talking, she could ignore the bludgeoning pain in her shoulder that threatened to pull her under.

_Ignore it. You've had worse._

“Bucky was – is – short for his middle name, Buchanan,” Steve was saying numbly. He seemed to be resurfacing slowly. “James Buchanan Barnes.”

James Buchanan Barnes.

_James._

Natasha tipped her head back and willed herself not to pass out. Her ghost was Captain America's dead friend, and her former lover.

* * *

“ _It's not fair.”_

_She smiled a little at his huff of frustration and snuggled closer to him, her body fitting neatly into the curve of his. This close, she could feel his steady breath on the back of her neck. It was the closest that she would let anyone get to her, and he knew it._

“ _What's not fair?” she asked sleepily, eyes half closed._

“ _I know your name, Natalia,” he said quietly, “but you don't know mine.”_

_She turned her head towards him slightly. His arm – the one that wasn't metal – was fidgeting where it lay protectively over her side._

“ _Do_ you _know your name?” she asked curiously, and she felt him tense. He would never flinch at a knife stab, but that question cut deeper._

“ _...no.”_

_He fell silent, and she didn't pursue the subject. She had always somehow known that the Winter Solder (her Soldier, as she liked to think) could not have always been whom he was. In another life, he had been someone else. But now he was her Soldier, and they were lying side by side, and she refused to think of anything outside that room. All that mattered at that moment were the two of them, together on that bed._

“ _James.”_

“ _Hm?”_

_His voice was barely a whisper, but she caught it._

“ _I think...I think my name is James. It sounds right.”_

_She smiled and turned so that she was facing him. His expression was confused, almost pained, and she wiped it away by leaning forward to press her lips softly against his. She lingered, savoring his taste, then pulled back._

“ _Mm, James. I like it.” A small rare smile flickered across his face. “Even if it isn't the right one, I approve.”_

_He chuckled and tugged her closer, and she buried her face against his chest. A small insistent part of her was screaming that this was wrong, that they would be caught and sent to Siberia, but she suppressed that feeling like the professional that she was. They had to steal small moments of peace and pleasure like this. Life was always changing, as she had come to learn. After all, she was Russian._

* * *

 

One week later, and everything had changed. They were punished for relishing in that small bit of goodness in their lives, for that peace and pleasure. One week later, and James had disappeared, his memories wiped clean and his body frozen in time.


	6. Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't in order, but is meant to take place in the hazy future when Bucky isn't a murderous Hydra weapon, and has sort of been accepted by the Avengers.

Watching the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier spar was a favorite event for the upper echelons of the Red Room program. Very few ever had the opportunity to witness one of the fights, but those who did, left with an overwhelming confidence in the Soviet Union's key weapons. The spy and the assassin fought like they were dancing – all steel grace and supple ruthlessness.

More than sixty years later, nothing had changed. When the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier sparred, the Avengers watched, and by the end, they left with fervent appreciation that the assassins were on their side.

It wasn't that the Avengers didn't spar with each other; Natasha often practiced with Clint and Steve. But there was something different about training with those two. Nat and Clint were old friends and colleagues, and their fights had settled into a kind of comfortable rhythm. Sometimes they sparred to relax, even chat and unwind.

Practicing with Steve was just as different. He had super strength and was always aware of it when he practiced with Natasha. He knew that she was as skilled as he (if not more so), but he could never shake off the knowledge that one too-powerful strike with his super strength could cause considerable damage to her. So he pulled his punches, even when Natasha, frustrated, ordered him not to.

Sparring with Bucky was an entirely different experience. True, he had helped train her more than sixty years ago, but in that time, while he was frozen in stasis and time ran by, the Black Widow had honed her skills to become more than anything the Red Room had sculpted.

It was a dance, but a violent one. They did not fight like friends, but like two predators locked in combat – two wolves that lunged and darted at each other. Bucky was solid, imposing, and sinewy; Natasha was quick, graceful, and vicious. Bucky blocked blows steadily, and Natasha evaded them swiftly. They had been trained to fight in practice as they did on missions - with all of their might and with full intention to dominate and win. 

Like all things between them, they did not hold back.


	7. Odessa

Before the fall of SHIELD, there had been a brief moment when she had remembered. There was something about that face, that hair, that stance, that movement, that had triggered something in her memories. That fight on the bridge was not the first time she had seen the Winter Soldier and fought him. She had clashed with him years ago, and it had felt like a continuation. They were always meant to meet, and fight, and dance in that way that was private between them.

She had been escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran on SHIELD orders. It was supposed to be a standard pick up and drop off, albeit with a bullet-proof SUV and five different guns and knives strapped to her body alone. The engineer, a middle-aged Iranian man, had been obedient enough, following her orders and sticking to the plan. She hadn't anticipated any trouble; after all, nobody was supposed to know that he was being moved.

Life always had a way of surprising her.

The route along the side of the mountain near Odessa was more vulnerable that she would preferred, but it had been the fastest and most direct route, and SHIELD had specifically instructed her to use it. Natasha drove and the engineer sat beside her in the passenger seat, looking out of the window at the fifty-foot drop. The land was beautiful, he was telling her wistfully, when a blast rocked the SUV on its axles.

The tires had been blown out.

She had lost the steering after that, and the car had swerved to the side of the road and careened over the edge of the cliff, towards that beautiful, beautiful land. As they fell, she had time to yell, “Brace yourself!” to the engineer before the ground rushed up to embrace them violently.

It was not the first time she had fallen off a cliff, nor the first time she had been in a car crash. She allowed herself a brief moment to breathe and take stock of her injuries – fractured ribs, broken right arm, sprained right ankle, mild concussion, forehead cuts, debilitating pain – before she was moving. The glove box of the SUV had two anesthetic shots, and she gave one each to herself and the engineer, who was unconscious. The doors were too twisted to crawl through, so she squeezed out of the shattered windshield and dragged the engineer out with her left arm.

The Winter Soldier was waiting for them.

She caught a brief glimpse of him – a rifle in his hands, long brown hair, a black mask and goggles, and a shiny metal right arm – before he raised his weapon. But she reacted more quickly that he had expected, releasing the engineer and bringing up her own gun to fire off two shots. They were meant to distract and put him on the defensive, and it worked; the assassin's first shot missed.

But that shot showed her that he had been targeting not her, but the engineer. It was her package that he wanted eliminated, and she immediately dove in front of the man to place herself squarely in between him and the killer. But she had no shield of her own, and when the assassin fired again, it was a slug that went straight through her abdomen and buried itself in the engineer's chest.

It was only later, after speaking with SHIELD analysts, that she learned the shot had been a result of expert marksmanship: a single, efficient bullet that completed the assassin's mission without another moment of combat or exchange of fire. The slug – Soviet-made, unmarked, and from an untraceable rifle – ripped through her torso and left a scar that would never heal. But she had been lucky, the doctors said. He could have killed her first and then finished off his true target.

She knew better. It wasn't luck; it was efficiency. In another life, she would have admired it.

At the time, she could only focus on the agony. She knew that the slug had hit an organ; she knew that specific pain, having been trained in it since childhood. As her vision began to darken around the edges, she saw him stride up to her, rifle still clutched in that hand of shiny metal. Despite the mask covering his nose and mouth, she could hear his every word.

“Target eliminated,” he was saying in Russian into a communicator strapped to his shoulder. A voice on the other end inquired about any loose ends, and he replied, “Not for long.”

He was a few yards away when he froze. For a moment he merely stood there staring at her, rifle now held limp and forgotten in his hand. Then it clattered to the ground.

She could not see his expression, but then slowly, almost fearfully, he stepped forward and knelt by her side. With shaking hands, he removed his black goggles. His eyes were brown and wide, and she knew in that shivering moment that those eyes were familiar to her. His gaze held a mixture of confusion, shock, and horror, and she knew that he recognized her as well.

“Natalia?”

James, her mind whispered, unbidden, and something inside her twisted before she sank into unconsciousness. As her eyes closed, she saw hands seizing the masked man from behind and yanking him away, and then she knew no more.


	8. Milyi Moi

The next time they meet after the fight on the bridge, it is outside a crowded cafe in Dupont Circle in Washington, DC amid a bustling fall afternoon. It's mainly locals in the area – families, young twenty-somethings, students, and a few elderly couples – and they all blended into the background of a warm, breezy day and a relief from the stifling humidity of the past summer.

Natasha had spent the entire day tailing the businessman sitting on the other side of the cafe's outdoor seating. He was white, late 40s, with gray hair turning white at the temples. He wore a suit – unlike the casually-dressed weekend-goers – which fit well but was not tailored. His shoes were polished, and his voice was clipped and precise.

He had yet to notice that she had followed him from his swanky Georgetown apartment to his brief jog in Rock Creek Park, then after a brief stop back at his apartment again, a stroll to the lovely cafe in Dupont Circle. He had ordered a cup of coffee but barely touched it, taking occasional sips and checking his phone as he prolonged his stay. His fingers drummed against the table and every ten minutes or so, he crossed and uncrossed his legs.

The Black Widow took a sip of her own decaf coffee (black, no sugar or cream) and smiled.

* * *

The target was white, tall, and moved like someone who did cardio but did not build his muscles. From his movements, he was more accustomed to sitting in a chair for ten hours a day than wielding a knife. He moved confidently, but with no raw force behind it.

From across the street, the Winter Soldier observed his target from under a Washington Nationals cap (stolen from a stall a few blocks away). He leaned against the side of a brick building, ignoring the stream of people passing by, but even with his eyes pinned to his target, he couldn't fail to notice the red-headed woman sitting on the opposite side of the outdoor patio. She was drinking casually from a delicate cup, but her body couldn't hide her poised alertness. Not from him.

She wasn't facing him or the target, and a wide-brimmed hat obscured her face from view, but the Winter Soldier knew that body language. He knew that stance and that elegant tension; he'd come face-to-face with it – violently – more than a few times. Those thighs had straddled his shoulders as she had attempted to strangle him with a garrote.

The Black Widow, he remembered automatically. They had called her the Black Widow, and they'd spoken of her in apprehensive tones. The Slavic Shadow. The Russian Avenger. The Red Death. They had trained him to be wary of her, that dangerous, lethal Black Widow.

 _Obstacle_ , part of him thought, but another part of him whispered, _Natalia_.

Unnerved, his gaze skittered then landed back on the target, who was now shifting uneasily in his seat. He glanced at his watch a few times, then went back to drinking his coffee and checking his phone.

Restless, the Soldier observed. Wary.

His eyes flicked back to where the Black Widow had been sitting – only to find that her table was empty.

He straightened, instantly alert, and scanned the cafe's patio for a glimpse of the wide-brimmed hat or red hair. She was nowhere to be seen. She was gone, and no one seemed to have noticed. After a few minutes, he turned his attention back to the target. Maybe she left. Maybe she had merely been waiting for someone there. Maybe she had been relaxing. Maybe-

A strong hand closed around his right wrist and yanked him into the alley around the corner. In the privacy of the shadows, he instinctively broke his opponent's grip with a hard wrench, then swung his left fist – his metal one – where he judged his attacker's head to be. His eyes didn't have time to adjust to the sudden darkness, so he felt rather than saw his opponent duck his swing.

He _definitely_ felt the kneecap smashing into his groin, and with a grunt, he stumbled forward. His metal hand shot out and seized the front of his attacker's clothes, but two hands clasped together into a hammer slammed into the back of his neck twice, and he let go of the clothes and fell face-first against the asphalt. He had barely turned over onto his back when his adversary's weight – lighter than he had expected, but forceful – settled onto his torso, pinning him down.

A wicked knife hovered over his jugular, and the Winter Soldier looked up into the sharp green eyes of the Black Widow.

“One move, and this knife will make you bleed out in under a minute,” the woman hissed in Russian. “I'd advise you to stop struggling.”

The Soldier froze. He could throw her off if he wanted to – and he fully expected that she would land on her feet and redouble her attack – but her knife was much too close to his neck. She was right, of course. He healed more quickly than normal, but slicing open his jugular meant that he would exsanguinate before he could stop the bleeding and recover. When he made no move to fight her, the Black Widow smiled grimly, but kept the knife close to his neck.

“Good. Now, what the hell are you doing here?”

He matched her stare challengingly. He knew he should be fighting back, doing _something_ , but something deep in his mind resisted the urge to shove her away. There was an echo of a memory, just a faded wisp, that told him this was not the first time he had been in this position. It felt oddly familiar, despite how hard his instincts were telling him that he was in a vulnerable state. When was the last time he had been this close to someone and not tried to kill them?

He was so screwed up.

* * *

“What are _you_ doing here?” the Winter Soldier retorted back in Russian, and his voice was hoarse from lack of use. Natasha resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Hydra might have taught him how to kill a man with one hand, but they had neglected to teach him how to talk himself out of a situation.

“I'm tailing the same person you are,” she replied curtly. “But you're jeopardizing everything.” When he narrowed his eyes at her, she said impatiently, “That hat isn't fooling anyone, you idiot. You stick out from the crowd, and it's only a matter of time before he sees you and gets spooked.”

The Winter Soldier frowned, the space between his eyes wrinkling a bit, and a detached part of her observed how different his face was without that mask and goggles. He had also abandoned some of his former clothes for a hoodie and jeans, and wore his hair tied back. He looked more familiar this way. More like James, whoever that person was.

She wished she could remember.

“He hasn't seen me.”

This time, Natasha did roll her eyes, though her grip on the knife didn't waver. She shifted impatiently on top of him and saw him swallow hard. _Ah_. Maybe he remembered something, too. At any rate, he hadn't tried to kill her, which was an improvement from the last time she had seen him. She didn't think he still wanted to kill her, or he would have tried the moment he had spotted her. No, he was after the same thing she was: answers.

The Black Widow looked down at him thoughtfully for a moment, weighing her options. She was never honest in her explanations, preferring to use a cocktail of lies and half-truths, but in this case, she could use some honesty to her advantage.

“I know you're following that man because he's ex-Hydra,” she told him finally. “I am, too. I want information, but I don't have time for you to trip me up. So either you can help me, or you can get out of my way, _soldat_. We're not on opposite sides anymore.”

She waited a moment as he thought it over. When he nodded reluctantly and relaxed, she got to her feet, knife still in her hand. From her peripheral vision, she saw that her target was gone from the cafe. _Damn._ It wouldn't be impossible to find him again – at one point, she'd remotely tapped into his phone and could track him with it – but it made her life a little harder.

The Winter Soldier must have also noticed that the target had disappeared, because after he stood up, he made no move to leave the alley. Instead, he just looked at her scrutinizingly, and Natasha had the feeling that he was working himself up to say something important. She raised her eyebrows when he opened his mouth to speak, but he seemed to change his mind.

Finally, he said, “If you stay out of my way, I'll stay out of yours.”

Natasha gave him a smile, the steely, not-quite-friendly one she reserved for temporary allies whom she didn't trust.

“ _Milyi moi_ ,” she replied, “Don't worry about me.”

As soon as she said those words – _milyi moi_ , my dear – she wished she hadn't. They had slipped out, an uncharacteristic and dangerous thing for her to do. The worst part was that it had felt normal, almost natural for her to use that term of endearment for this man, no matter how sarcastic she had meant her reply to be. She was certain that she had once used that endearment sincerely and genuinely, and she could not remember exactly why or when.

The Winter Soldier's reaction was immediate. His breath hitched and he swallowed hard, eyes widening. _Is that how I reacted?_ Natasha wondered briefly. _Did I look like that when I was beginning to remember?_ She didn't want to be the one to give him back his memories, all seventy years of them. Hell, she was still trying to remember and cope with her own. But if they could find out how they had known each other...

She took a step back, returning her knife to its hidden sheath in her sleeve. The Winter Soldier was still staring at her, but now his gaze was one of confusion and recognition. Hopefully he couldn't see past her carefully-blank expression and realize that she was feeling exactly the same way. Telling herself that she wasn't retreating, Natasha stepped backwards to the end of the alley. She needed to get away before she said something else stupid.

Before she rounded the corner, she paused and looked back at the Winter Soldier. He seemed to be frozen in shock.

“Goodbye, James.”

_Shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah crap why did I stay up so late to write this.


End file.
